


The Impossible Questions of How and Why

by orphan_account



Category: Sing (2016)
Genre: I've never noodled the moon before, M/M, Noodlemoon, but here we go, for sticks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-18 14:33:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9389345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Buster took a deep breath.So he lo-He clenched his teeth. Best not to get ahead of himself.He liked Eddie.Alright.Now why?





	

**Author's Note:**

> For Sticks, who wanted noodlemoon.  
> (I hope I did it well)

       It was impossible to say when it started. Really now, what needed to be decided upon was what to do with it.

       Buster sat stone still, curled up in his chair and staring out of the window into the blinding noon-day view of the city. Through the slats of the air conditioner, he could hear the chatter of the sidewalk, the ebb and flow of traffic, the distant wail of a siren. The sounds settled like water inside of his head, muddying an already tangled string of thought. 

       Buster took a deep breath.

       So he lo-

       He clenched his teeth. Best not to get ahead of himself.

       He liked Eddie.

       Alright.

       Now why?

       Pebbles of memory rose to the surface of the slurry in his brain, snippets of conversations where Eddie backed away from adventure, moments where he balked in the face of risk. God may not have played dice with the universe, but Buster Moon did, and Buster Moon needed somebody to help him load those dice in his favor.

       Eddie was not that man.

       But Eddie was the kind of man that held to his convictions. Buster could not think of another person he trusted more in that regard. No matter what the cost, Eddie would be Eddie. He was the sort of man who would be kind when it would have been favorable for him to be anything but. Buster was living proof of that, having long run out of fingers and toes by which to count the favors he owed his friend.

       His friend.

       Buster felt his heart give a twinge.

       He grit his teeth, eyes burning a hole through the window to stare blindly into the sun.  

       Would Eddie be there though, when it really counted? When Eddie got the call at 3am, for there would be a call at 3am, Buster knew, would he come running? Would he drop everything and be there when he was needed?

       How well could you believe in a person who generally treated responsibility like an allergen? The man lived in a pool house; his groceries, his rent, his electric and water, all covered. Buster couldn’t even remember the last time Eddie did his laundry by himself.  For christ’s sake, he had a _life coach_ who had to put on his schedule a block of time in which to _visit his grandmother_. Would Eddie have to go through his life coach to block out time for _him?_

       Or worse, what if Eddie wanted everything to be done on his time? What of Buster’s own life? What of the theater?

       He absentmindedly ran his hand along the windowsill, watching the dust as it lifted from its rest to dance upon the sunbeams.

       In the pharmacy romances, first loves were always pesky things. They got in the way of new adventures and new feelings. Weeping ensued, as did pining. Overall, there seemed to be more confusion than anything else, a mass of writhing heartache and fear that left Buster chewing at his fingertips in agitation.

       This whole situation felt a lot like that.

       Art was so much easier to love because art loved to be loved, loved to be worshiped and idolized and held in the heart like a precious thing. It wanted the adoration of its disciples though body and soul. It wanted affection shown in blood and sweat and tears. Buster knew how to do that, these sacrificial offerings before the crack of dawn. It was in the nights where he did not sleep. It was in the days he did not eat. It was in the hours upon hours where he did nothing but work and pray and pray and work and hold his breath and hoped the art loved him back.  

       Buster knew how to love theater. What he did not know was how to love another living thing, not in the same way. How do you translate such intensity into a thing people could understand?

       Would Eddie understand?

       Should he dare? Should he push aside the curtain of uncertainty and ask? If he chose to throw the dice on this one, there would be no way to stack them in his favor. To do this would be all or nothing. There would be no second chances.

       Outside, the city rolled on, the day slowly turning into the bruised sky of dusk, and then, nothing. 

**Author's Note:**

> (If it makes you guys feel any better, if Buster's thinking this hard about it, I'm sure he'll at least try to make something work.)


End file.
